


A King and his Warrior

by Valmouth



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: King - Freeform, M/M, Warrior - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-14
Updated: 2013-11-14
Packaged: 2018-01-01 11:31:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1044315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Valmouth/pseuds/Valmouth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All dwarves were fighters, and all dwarves were proud, but Thorin was bred to be a King and Dwalin was bred to be a Warrior.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A King and his Warrior

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I own no rights to these two characters or to the creative universes they are derived from. I mean no offence by posting this and make no money from it.

There were not many who had the strength he did. 

He was bred to majesty; a line of Warrior Kings with complete assurance in their right to rule. He was bred for the breadth of his shoulders, and the muscle of his back, for the weight of his hands and the thick knot of his calves. 

And then he was trained. 

For it was not enough to be strong. To have his shoulders and his back and the weight of his hands. It could never be enough to wear a crown.

Because what was a crown but shaped metal? And so many knew how to shape metal. A King was nothing if he could not defend what was his. 

Sword, axe, mace and spear. Arrows and halberds and staffs and shields. 

Scrolls and maps and the accounts of old battles; a pile of beautifully carved miniatures to mark the spaces where blood had spilled and death was the true victor. 

Silver plate and golden jewellery. Mithril chainmail and antique bronze, steel and silks and velvet and priceless wood.

All these and more and Thorin never complained because he was the firstborn, bred to be King. He was bred to the nobility of his line, the strengths of his race, and he was bred to protect what his ancestors had fought so hard to create. He bowed to his fate, and it gave him peace.

He was bred to be a king, and that did not change when he had no kingdom, when he bent his back and his shoulders and his hands to cheap work in forges in the villages of Men. It never changed when he stood with his grandfather, petitioning the lords of the Iron Mountains for aid to retake Khazad-dum.

Tall for a dwarf, they said, and he only crossed his arms across the barrel of his chest and said nothing in his scrupulously courteous arrogance. 

Thorin was control and discipline, formidable will bent to the service of his purpose in life. Kings required subjects, and subjects he still had. Kings required rule, and his rule was still sought. His court was his sister’s table, his nobles’ hands roughened by swords and menial work. His feasts were stew and wine was ale and the winters were harsh if he did not swing his axe in the quest for firewood. 

And then there was Dwalin. 

There were few dwarves who were taller. 

There were fewer dwarves who could twist the axe from his hands, movement sure and economical. Who would dare slam the hard ridge of his brow down into Thorin’s noble face when sparring, just shy of breaking his nose.

All dwarves were fighters, and all dwarves were proud, but Thorin was bred to be a King and Dwalin was bred to be a Warrior.

Not a soldier who followed orders, but a warrior who willingly pledged his loyalty to the Line of Durin and saw their will done.  

Dwalin was bloodlust and warhunger; a rough, looming figure of intimidation all too easily provoked to savagery. Anger stored in the reserves of his great frame to stoke the fires of his violence. 

He was bred to the smell of leather and chainmail, to barrack rooms and training enclosures, as steady and immoveable as the rock he defended. He went largely nameless, but unforgettable. A honed weapon in the arsenal of one who would one day demand his life’s blood for a victory that might serve no great purpose.

And Dwalin never complained, because he was the second born, and bred to be the axe that guarded his king’s back. He made his peace with this.

He watched and he waited, and he was silent until he had something to say. His presence was not required until there was a fight. His opinion was not sought unless it was a matter of defence or offence. He watched and he waited and he saw.

There were few dwarves tall enough and strong enough to lift Thorin Oakenshield from a grief vigil beside his grandfather’s defiled body. Few who guarded the King so staunchly against all enemies, including his own self-immolation on the altar of his higher purpose. There were no others who would twist the axe from near-nerveless, frozen fingers and complete the task with heavier swings, harder blows, and half the time. Who would watch over Thorin’s sister and her dwarflings in his king’s absence. 

And who would, if needed, wrestle his king out of fits and clothes, hold him still or hold him down or manhandle him to where Dwalin was silently aware Thorin needed to be, against all odds, no matter how bruised and battered his own flesh, no matter his own wounds or exhaustion.

The heavy weight of hands clenching on his shoulders and fisting the sheets of a tavern bed in the villages of Men, Thorin’s mouth bred for proclamations and court speech spitting filthy soldier’s curses between harsh, rattling gasps for air, the cords of his throat exposed beneath his shorn beard as he tipped his head back in mingled pleasure and pain.

And Dwalin, because this was his reason to exist, bent his own head to that exposed throat. Bent his own body to cover his king’s, his arms to bracket him safely on the comfort of the mattress, his hips to fit snugly against the bared apex of Thorin’s thighs. To protect, to respect, to prove his loyalty. Again and again. No matter that he left his own skin naked to any knife that cared to carve it.

 His loyalty was always repaid. A hard hand wrapped around the vulnerable line of his neck and strong legs around his waist. A hand roaming a back broader and harder and bred to bear the weight of a king’s whim.

Should an attack truly come, Dwalin predicted Thorin’s grip of arms and legs would be used to unbalance him to the side, Thorin’s instincts pushing him to protect his subject – all that was left of his lost kingdom. And Dwalin knew how he would counter it, and how he would give the soft, yielding flesh of his own body to the killing blow if it bought Thorin the time needed to make his escape or make his stand. 

A Warrior King would, after all, go down fighting, and a King’s Warrior would follow him even into death.

 


End file.
